of laptops and time bombs
by Daffidill
Summary: When Sherlock breaks into John's laptop, hoping to find some case-info, he's more confused than anything else... John? Really!
1. breaking and entering

* author's note: this all is set before_ The Reichenbach Fall_-episode, as i am still in massive denial that it actually happened... probably set somewhere between _Scandal in Bohemia_ and _The Hounds Of Baskerville_, if there must be a time-placing... *

* * *

**1. breaking and entering**

He shouldn't have left his laptop where he could find it… Was that a good excuse? or just a lame one to cover his tracks, if caught, which would be almost inevitable… Sherlock glanced around for confirmation that he was indeed alone in the room, and flipped open the small pc that was on the table in front of him, and waited for it to kick into life. John knew by now that his personal belongings were open to be perused, he thought to himself, it wasn't the first time it happened, and Sherlock needed to see, desperately, for some reason, if John had written stuff about the case they were currently on that he could use. Sherlock himself had been unable to find another angle, and John had proved more than once to have a simpler way of looking at things, less convoluted than the things his own brain would come up with usually…

The little password section appeared on the screen, which Sherlock passed with great ease (after_ Mrs. Hudson's first name_ and_ the town in Afghanistan he was stationed in_ had failed to keep his flat mate out, John had hoped_ his mother's first name spelt backward_ would do the trick. To no avail…) and he went straight on to find where John kept his documents. A long list of files came out and Sherlock wandered though a couple, hoping to find the information he was hoping for. He perused some blog entries, a few medical reports, and when all the others seemed to give him no more than he already knew, he clicked onto the one file he'd – uncharacteristically – left alone: Personal Stuff. Even Sherlock had some respect for that. Grudgingly…

Since getting to know him, John had become a kind of obsession with Sherlock. Getting to know the man, beyond the things that impressed the socks off him on that first day in the lab and in the taxi, was pretty hard. John was more of an enigma to him than he himself was to the rest of the world… He would only share with him what he thought was necessary for the smooth running of their working relationship (and some of their personal) and Sherlock had already figured out that his dear flat mate had more emotions that Sherlock had in his little finger… He, too, Sherlock figured, must've been hurt dramatically in his life, so much that it's left scars, but where Sherlock was raised by cold, calculating, analytical people, John came form a fairly loving, warm nest (from what he made up of the bits and pieces), so that he hadn't been changed into a machine, like himself…

Personal Stuff… Sherlock made the cursor hover over the file and waited to double click it. Something was stopping him, but his curiosity took over. _Click-click_. The document opened before his eyes. Other folders. More titles, and glancing at them, it appeared it was more to do with his therapy than anything else. And then he saw his initials. SH it read. SH? What else could SH stand for? Before he thought he clicked on it, wishing to know what the document contained. Writing popped up.

'…_not sure what good it's going to do, all this writing about my feelings, but maybe it will help… can't do much harm surely, tapping away on a laptop which doesn't criticize me or judge… the only one who'll judge me is me and I promise I won't_…'

Sherlock smiled at the way even in his writing John was humble and careful, worried about possible retaliations, even if they were only in his head… As he read on, he noticed that the tone went from Very General to Very Specific. He described their meeting, his first impressions and getting to know each other, his reactions to Sherlock's peculiarities, his seemingly increasing admiration, until there was a shift in tone, and the General notes became a kind of letter to Sherlock.

'…_the few times that either of us was on the edge of death, have been more traumatic than any of the brushes I'd had in Helmand or wherever else hell was at times in the army… the thought of losing you almost paralyzed me… but you're still here, you're still driving me mad with your weird ways of thinking, your particular ways of working stuff out, your voice that cuts deep into my soul, your eyes that pierce right through me, your hands that flail and express and jesus I so want to be more that just your little helper, your sidekick… the amount of times I catch myself thinking of you, of your eyes and hands and cheekbones and that coat that swishes when you turn around, and that purple shirt that makes my blood boil… god Sherlock…_'

A sigh escaped him, and he had to sit back in his chair for a while, letting what he just read sink in. This wasn't a bit of diary writing, getting stuff off his chest, this was a declaration of… love? John was in love with him?! What the…

'…_up until falling for you like a boulder, I'd managed to conceal my feelings for other men quite well, really… considering… when I was 18 I had actually had a relationship with another guy, Alex, who was in the same athletics team as I was (when I had a spell of being sporty - lol!) and I'd fallen totally and madly in love with him. Before him there had been girls, even had a girlfriend, but this was different, as if we both 'got' life when being together, as if things seemed good, suddenly. With girls, like now, things were always complicated, the opposite of relaxed… Alex made me feel so good… we did stuff together, talked about the future, about what we wanted to do in life, and the two of us… he was really good looking, very fit and seemed to be in love with me in the same way I felt I was with him, but when it came out to my parents that we were an item, hell broke loose and he bolted, leaving me bruised and very alone… he'd hurt my feelings, and I couldn't handle that and so I decided to keep that part of myself packaged away… no more boys… no more hurt…_'

Ah, Sherlock thought. The missing link…

'… _until I went into the army, which was pretty stupid, talk about a time bomb ticking away… but when I was with the guys there it wasn't such a tricky thing… my natural ability to care and feel warm towards other human beings in a crisis (quite handy when you're a doctor) was somehow a godsend while in the desert with hell going on around you… nobody minds you being kind to them when they have a leg hanging off… some of the chaps there used me as a kind of nurse in their hours of need, clinging to me for dear life, needing me to be their mum, and I loved doing that… but anyway, that's a different story… I was supposed to deal with my feelings for you… my strong feelings for you… you, who will not return them, cos you're married to your work, as you said in our first proper conversation, our first candle lit dinner… god Angelo was so spot on, the bastard… he could see it, that you were right for me, or that I was right for you… whatever… Suppose I should just learn to accept that things are the way they are… I'd rather have you in my life the way it is now, than losing you cos I freak you out with all my feelings…'_

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to make sense of what he's just read. John.. His dear John, the only friend he ever had, was in love… with him… Now there was a case to be solved...

-x-x-x-x-x-

- to be continued -


	2. assumptions and red wine

**2.** **assumptions and red wine**

The phone that lay a few inches away on his desk made another attempt to get John's attention, but rather than tend to it, he wished to get the notes from his previous patient processed, which meant he could go and have a coffee with Sarah and Alison-from-reception in the other room. The afternoon seemed to drag on a bit too much to his liking, and the ingrowing toenails of the man that just left his room hadn't done much to lift his spirits. Sherlock's texts were a nice distraction... Pling-a-ling! Number three in short succession - John knew he should answer them soon, or he would have a sulking flatmate to deal with later...

**john, hope you have no plans this evening, booked us a table at jean-pierre's at 7. please be there... - SH**

**hello? John! please! oh, and bring some plasters home, have used them all in accident with knife just now - SH**

**and we're out of milk. - SH**

John took in a deep breath and frowned at his phone. What the hell...?! What if he had plans already? What was he thinking, going around booking tables like that... Had he no..._ oh, right... silly me_, he thought, as a smile appeared on his face... He_ had_ no manners, and John knew his Regular Doctor Mode had taken over for a bit, questioning Sherlock's methods, being affronted by the man's lack of politeness. He snapped into Sherlock's Best Friend Mode for a minute and started answering the texts.

**and what if i had been busy tonight? do you not care about my social life at all? as it is i'll be there - JW**

**are you okay, re. knife incident...? - JW**

He went back to his laptop and tried to remember what he'd told the ingrowing toenail man. Oh yeah, referral to outpatients in nearby clinic, note made for possible mental health issues John felt were simmering under the surface. He knew the signs (snapping at girlfriend, twitchy hands, smell of alcohol) and wanted to make sure he at least made some sort of ... Pling-a-ling! Thought process interrupted yet again...

**care lots about your social life, but you don't have one at the moment. need to speak to you. - SH**

Another smile on John's face. How dare he question Sherlock... Now who was affronted...

**sounds ominous... got me worried now... no casualties, i hope... - JW**

The case his friend been working on for the past few weeks, and didn't need John's help with anymore, had been solved a few days back, and it was very well possible that boredom had kicked in already. There had been something fairly peculiar about Sherlock this last week. He had been stuck, he'd said last week, but then something had booted him back into shape, and within days he figured out why the sister of the victim should be arrested, and not the lover as was in many ways so obvious...

**none to speak of... mrs h might need new curtains - SH**

**god! sherlock... i would like to finish work now, see you at 7 - JW**

The women were already sitting in the coffee room, and Sarah offered a biscuit, holding the box under his nose in a very tempting manner. John resisted, for about three seconds, then took two, and sat in the empty chair next to Alison's, who had flopped herself down in hers as if she was going to stay there forever.

"Busy day?" Sarah asked.

"Boring day... no more busy that normal... You?" John tucked the second biscuit in his mouth.

"Busy, and rather pleasant, thanks... for a change..." she smiled.

"Yeah, well, with mr. Yummy coming in for his monthly check up... i would be..." offered Alison without lifting her head form the head rest. "If only they were all like that... All i get is phonecalls from people that have a runny nose, or a runny tummy. Or both... God! Bloody flu-epidemic..."

John smiled at the women, enjoying their friendly banter, silly conversations over nice patients. His weren't yummy, or in any other way intriguing, he thought. Mundane, he supposed was the word he was looking for. Mundane in a way that his hours with Sherlock never were...

Pling-a-ling!

"Ah... someone wants you..." Alison perked up for a minute. "Well, who is it then?'

"The love of his life, would be my guess..." Sarah looked at John in a meanigful way, which was picked up by the other woman.

"Love of your life? Who would that be...?"

"Duh... Sherlock, of course," as Sarah spoke het eyes searched John, who bit back rather irritated.

"We're not... I'm not... He's... just... God, Sarah, can you let it go, please... He's not the love of my life, okay...? No matter how often you say so..."

"Ooohh... The lady protests too much, methinks..." lauhged Alison, who had by now sat upright in the armchair, curiosity well and truly tweaked. "Are you sure, John? You wouldn't be the first bloke to reassess their feelings for other men... Or woman... No, that's not right... But you know what i mean... The other day i had a guy ring in who was happily married, or so he thought, for 15 years, and found he'd fallen in love with someone from his football team... 42 he was... Smitten... So things aren't cast in stone, you know..." She gave him a gentle pat on the arm, and smiled encouragingly.

"Well, thanks very much, ladies, but i think i know what i feel..."

He took his phone out of his pocket and checked the text, which was indeed form Sherlock - NOT the love of his life, thanks... He's put a stop to any thoughts in that direction a few months ago.

**don't bring milk, it'll just go off in the restaurant. mrs h is threatening to have us evicted... - SH**

The smile that appeared on his face wasn't unnoticed by the two women in his company. For fuck's sake... This was getting pathetic...

o0o0o0o0o0o

The gentle buzz in the restaurant was fine with Sherlock, who had been sitting at the table for 34 minutes already, playing with a napkin and smiling polite half-smiles at the waiters in the back. He wasn't sure if they were being courtious or mocking, but he didn't really care. He was there for his now-or-never chat with John, he would be throwing out penty of small fish to see if John was ready to accept his offer of reciprocity, answer the feelings expressed in the words-document, even though he knew he was on dodgy territory having invaded John's privacy once again... He felt nervous. Very nervous... What if he'd screw up, blow his one chance of moving this thing with John past the platonic friendship it had been for over a year now. Do something with the feelings he found himself having for that sweet, beautiful man that appeared into his life almost unnoticed, the man he found himself falling slowly for, slowly, relentlessly, deeply... Whom he dreamt about, at night, when he wasn't having nightmares... Whom he thought about, while lying on the sofa, pretending to be solving crimes, the man who had filled the space that was left in his heart when his last - only other - love had buggered off, more than a decade ago. Betrayed him so mercilesly that it scarred him beyond repair. Or so he thought. Until John Watson appeared in his life.

Reading the words in the laptop had made his heart leap out of his chest. Someone he loved wanted him, in that way... And he dismissed them, soon after reading them. John hadn't seemed to want to do anything with the feelings he'd described so vividly, and so Sherlock thought that he wasn't ready to do so, not for the time being. He saw no signs but the regular ones that their relationship was any other than the platonic one he'd gotten used to. Until the words of a pop song that he heard while in the taxi on his way home from Scotland Yard gave him the courage he was looking for that week. '_if you never try then you'll never know_...' Indeed...

At four minutes to seven he recognised John's figure at the door. He'd been keeping a beady eye on who came in and who went out, and the art nouveau windows in the door had become pretty familiar to him by now. Seeing John there pleased him, but along with the joy a truckload of jitters had sneaked in. He felt his stomach twist and turn, and desperatly hoped that no one else would notice his discomfort.

"Hi," he squeaked at his friend, and then coughed and tried again, "Hi... sorry, must be coming down with something... Are you okay?"

John sniggered and nodded. "Fine thanks... Bit fuzzy after so many weak and wobbly human beings but glad to be here with you... Have you ordered anything yet?"

Sherlock shook his head, happy with the familiarity of this meeting. Maybe he shouldn't have booked a table here... Maybe back in the flat in Baker Street would've been good... No, no, this was fine. Neutral territory, lovely cooking (he knew John loved Jean Pierre's chicken, and he himself would try the salad) and some delicate live chamber music - even he couldn't fail to see the charm in that.

"Wine? Red? Waiter!"

John perused the menu for a few minutes, although he already knew what he was going to order.

"Anything noteworthy happen today?" he heard Sherlock ask, and he shrugged his shoulders. Would he tell him about the ingrowing toenail, or the toddler with a bead up his nose? Or maybe the pregnant teenage girl, or the conversation between him and Sarah, with Alison's useful assessment thrown in for good measure...?

"Nah... Just your texts, really... So, tell me... What did you cut then?"

John looked up fully expecting to be shown severed fingers or worse, but was pleased that only a small strip of arm appeared to have been sliced, and not too deep, judging by the un-bloody plaster covering it.

"Maybe you could kiss it b... it's nothing really, just a small... never mind..." Sherlock mentally kicked himself for letting that first bit slip out.. What the fuck happened there? Mayby John would let it lie... Maybe...

"Maybe i could what...? Kiss it better? What are you on about?" John looked at Sherlock in slight confusion. Had he really said that? Then he noticed how crimson he man on the other side of his table had gone, visibly intensely uncomfortable. Shit... Did he know something...? What did he know? How did he know...?

"Nothing... i was just being silly... Sorry... Oh, look, here's the wine... Thanks, Marcel." Sherlock made a display of his gratitude, encouraging the waiter when he suggested that a candle was lit for them, hoping that his daft remark would be forgotten, but he had reckoned without John's inquisitiveness. He wasn't going to let this one go...

"Sherlock, tell me what you meant with that remark... Why should i kiss it better?"

John looked at him with piercing eyes, filled with a mixture of anger, confussion, anticipation and dread. He somehow feared what was coming, but more than that wished to know how Sherlock had come to the conclusion that John might be wanting to kiss him.

"Because i think you'd be good at it? I don't know... Maybe i want you to... Maybe i've wanted you to for ages... And ever since... Since reading your... God, John, I'm sorry... I've read your notes... The ones in your laptop, where you wrote about your feelings for me... And i can't put it out of my mind... That's why i wanted this meal... to tell you that... to... John, say something..."

"You read my notes?! You read my... Fuck you, Sherlock... You bastard... Is nothing sacred with you?! Do you think that you can just carry on taking liberties like that? Invading people's - _my_ privacy... You bloody bastard..."

Sherlock looked at the man in front of him in shock. The fury that posessed him seemed out of proportion... Surely this wasn't the first time that he'd found out about invasion of privacy? Why was it so bad that he now knew about John's feelings? Couldn't that only be good? What had he missed?

"Why are you like this, John? I mean - i'm risking all sorts here, opening up to you, offering to take the plunge with you, when you and i both know full well that i'm rubbish at relationships, that the chance of a cock up is greatly outweighed by the chance of success, but i want us to be more than friends, John... i want to be your lover, and you to be mine... John...? Please..."

John had put his hands on his face, trying to rub out the feelings of anger, the disappointment, the confusion. He sighed, hard, looked at Sherlock with daggers and stood up to leave.

"Not now, Sherlock... Not now..."

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

- to be continued...

* * *

thanx for reviews so far, and followers, and encouragement! had some trouble with my pc, but got my own laptop... (life imitating art and all that...)

xxx Daffidil


	3. timebomb ticking

**3. timebomb ticking**

As he hears the kettle click off, Sherlock finds himself staring out of the window of the kitchen. The back gardens of adjoining houses are bathing in darkness, only a few lights are on in rooms that haven't been blocked by curtains or blinds. Unknown neighbours going about their business, and had he been in the mood, he would've tried to deduce what business exactly. But he can't be asked, his mind is elsewhere – with his absent flat mate, to be precise. Absent and pretty difficult to get a measure of, he noticed... He thought earlier that he was on a fairly easy mission of reeling in John, of trying his hand at a Relationship, at Being A Couple, with the only person he could ever think of doing this with, freaky as the notion seems to him... But it wasn't to be, it appeared – John fled the restaurant, infuriated, with a speed he'd thus far only shown on cases with mad gunmen. Sherlock drops a teabag in the mug he'd put on the worktop, pours in the water, takes a spoon out of the cutlery drawer and starts to swish the teabag around, his mind wandering to John again.

John... His John... Or so he would like... Nothing of his there as yet... John may have expressed feelings going beyond friendship, and desire going beyond platonic touches in his words document, when confronted with a willing recipient all his reluctance appeared to come flooding back, or maybe it was something else altogether, and Sherlock was left alone at their table, having to deal with pitying looks from the waiters who stared at him from their post. Alone once more…

He came back from the restaurant not long after, and barged in through the front door, nearly knocking over Mrs. Hudson, who was there to get the bin ready for taking out in the morning. She looked at him perturbed, and asked him what was the matter.

"Nothing, just leave it…" came the reply from a brusque, taciturn Sherlock, captured by his own thoughts, preoccupied with one thing only.

"Is there nothing I can do, dear," she tried once more. Her instincts told her this was not about a gruesome murder case or maniacs on the loose. Her tenant looked forlorn. She could deal with forlorn…

"No, really, this is for me to deal with… But thanks any way…" he gave her a sad look, and then she put her hand on his, in a warm and reassuring manner, which resulted in Sherlock sighing a very deep sigh. He sat down on the stairs.

"Matters of the heart, then?" Mrs. Hudson asked, carefully. The silence said enough to her. "Is it John?"

Sherlock looked up, admiring, puzzled by his landlady's sharp observations… Or was it really that clear to the whole world? Was he the only one here who was ignorant as to what was going on…

"What have you done now?" Mrs. Hudson had joined him on the stairs. The threat of coming in for a cup of tea something he really didn't want to deal with, even though she was the closest he had to comfort.

"Nothing gets past you, does it…?"

"Not with you two, no… You may both be stubborn and silly and ignorant about how you are around each other, but believe you me: it's clear to everyone that there's more to what you feel for each other than you both seem to realize… If only there was a way this could be solved, than I would have two happy boys upstairs and all would be fine… But no, you two keep dancing around each other like a couple of silly teenagers, and the sparks are flying around like there's no tomorrow, and we're all getting slightly bored with this dance, Sherlock… What are you so scared of?"

Sherlock smiled at her. "I've done a stupid thing, Mrs. Hudson… I know John feels the same for me as I've done for him since I met him, though with him it seems to have taken longer to develop, but I found the things he'd written about this, for his therapy, I think, in a file in his laptop, and…"

"In his laptop..? You mean, you broke into his private stuff and had a poke around…? Does he know this?"

"Well, yes, that's why I'm here… On my own… And he's pissed off with me…" Sherlock dropped his head in his hands, fully realizing the implication of his actions. "I think he's scared now, and angry… And I don't know what to do…"

They sat there for a while, Mrs. Hudson with an arm around Sherlock, quietly, and after a while she told him that she thought everything would be alright, John would come to his senses, and if not, then she would have a word with him, which Sherlock told her was not necessary, but thanked her anyway. He then got up and made his way to the flat, which was empty, cold and pretty soulless, now that John wasn't here… .

With a tea mug in his hand he walks up to the sofa and sits down, head falling on the headrest. It was probably better to go back to being the way it was, the way_ he_ was. No more caring, it never did him any good any way. With a bit of luck things would go back to normal with John and all this would just become a 'thing' of the past, a footnote in their history. And sleep would be really nice now…

0o0o0o0o0o0

_What the hell gave him the idea that it was okay to do what he's done? Does privacy mean absolutely nothing to that infuriating man?_ It's a good thing that he liked him as much as he did, because John was finding it hard to find any of the redeeming features that so appealed to him normally... The conversation that they had earlier that evening in the restaurant escalated into something he had been very keen to avoid: moving closer to Sherlock – gaining his emotional trust - was somewhere on his list of things to do, not run a mile when that looked actually quite likely to happen. But that's not what happened, and that's the reason why he was now sprawled out on the emergency bed in the surgery, and not in the flat, making tea, or snogging the face off the man he liked more than he should… Every once in a while he'd find himself drifting off, but that didn't last very long. And every time he woke again, his thoughts went back to the conversation he had in the restaurant, ending with Sherlock telling him he'd read his notes… Then asking himself if it was really that bad… Was it? Because now he knew, now they could possible move on… Although he'd come to terms with the idea that nothing was ever going to happen, months ago, when he wrote all that… Sherlock was his friend, his feelings for him were purely strong admiration, he was probably projecting all sorts on to him (he'd read psychology at uni long enough to have come across that one) and any possible excitement or fantasies about what he might be doing to him, or what Sherlock might be doing back, were purely fantasy, his imagination running wild… Thoughts of how Sherlock would touch his face, gently, with those strong, lean hands… Or how their lips would meet, tenderly, hungry, and he dreamt about how Sherlock would taste, how soft his lips might be, and how his skin would feel under his hands. How making love would be with him… Would he be affectionate? Would he allow John total access to his body? His body… Ohh…

Several times that night John had to snap himself out of these thoughts, several times he was close to getting rather more aroused than he wanted to be. Several times he remembered why he was there, alone, angered, upset…

_John walks back to his room, right at the top the house, after a particularly demanding running session. He's been testing his stamina, and feels he's getting almost ready for the half-marathon he's been hoping to put his name down for, as he was challenged to by Alex, the guy he's been having a crush on for a while now, and who had answered his feelings with similar eagerness, though both had been keen to keep it quiet, not ready to deal with the world's reaction to what they had. It was a warm evening, and his parents are sitting in the garden, deep in conversation. He'd like to greet them, but he gets no eye contact and so carries on up to his room, which is at the top of the house. Harry is still away with a friend, her room is dark and quiet. As he gets up his stairs, he sees that his door is opened, and presumes his mother has put a pile of clothes on his bed, freshly washed and folded, earlier that day. But on the bed were no clothes, only a box, opened and by the look of it examined. His heart starts pounding hard, he feels the thumping of it in his throat by now – this is the box he keeps his private things in: notes, stubs for the cinema, pictures, and letters… Letters form Alex, mostly__… Alex likes to write him letters, long ones, beautiful, poetic ones, deep and very personal… __Quite graphic as well, some of it__… _

_Shit… Someone has found out, someone knows about his stuff… He's dreading to think, hopes desperately that is was his mum, even Harry would be fine, but deep dread takes over when he thinks about his dad's reaction to a letter form Alex… Shit, shit, shit… _

_The rest of the evening he spends in his room, only to leave it for bathroom breaks, and carefully avoids meeting anybody, until he can't, the next day, at breakfast, when two sets of eyes stare at him. One apologetic and empathetic, another fired up and mean. And the last pair belong to his dad, who waits for his mother to leave the kitchen, and mentions his little find. He'd been looking for a letter from college, he says, something to do with a meeting and a name he needed, and then he stumbled upon John's box of treasure… How long has this been going on? What the hell was he thinking, letting some fag write letters to him like that? Didn't he know how disgusting that all was… A seething tirade, menace in his eyes, and John is made to feel smaller than the ants that invaded the kitchen a few weeks back._

_He's gob smacked. His dad had given him a very hard time about keeping secrets before, how we don't do that in this house, then John found himself at the receiving end of a beating when he by accident came across a few magazines with naked women in them under his dad's side of the bed, while looking for laundry… It had left him very confused, didn't know what to make of it, and he became very fussy about his own things as a result, very secretive. The box with letters was his tiny sanctuary in a house full of prying folks who insisted they meant well… And now this… _

Tears welled in his eyes, but never reached boiling point. The memory still felt painful and mortifying – he'd never mentioned it to anyone afterwards, not even Harry, and privacy became something he was incredibly particular about. His laptop was his version of a diary, a line not to be crossed, by anyone. Sherlock breaching that trust, that part of his trust, was difficult; even though what Sherlock had discovered could help him – help them both – move forward in so many ways… He needed to look within to ascertain his willingness to let this go… To let Sherlock back in… And that was equally terrifying… Was he actually ready to deal with those feelings again? To allow that side of himself out in the open? Cos a relationship with Sherlock would not be a silly fling like he'd had with Alex, this would be serious - he was a mature man now, after all, and Sherlock wasn't likely to hide his feelings for John if they were in public. He was pretty crap, to be honest... Social skills weren't his forte, as he often witnessed, stuff he'd have had to then straighten out on so many occasions... Oh god... This was so not good...

Sleep came at about four in the morning, when birds started tweeting and dawn made its first careful appearance. John didn't know what to do still, hurt and fear having taken over his thinking. He decided to leave it till morning, see how he'd feel then. How a meeting with Sherlock would go. God, he wished that he'd deleted the bloody document when he'd thought about doing so in the first place, three months ago…. This all wouldn't have happened, and his life would be fine… Not this ticking time bomb… This minefield of feelings and risks, exposure and vulnerability… If only he'd never met Sherlock bloody Holmes…

-x-x-x-x-x-x-

- to be continued -


	4. getting back to normal

4**. getting back to normal**

_The lips that touch his are soft and eager. Gently they kiss him, capture his mouth, and with it his whole being. John lets it happen, willingly, wanted this for so long, losing himself in fantasies that have gone like this, over and over again… The man who's kissing him is always the same, always tall and strong, slender and passionate, and wanting only him back. He feels how his lips are skimmed over, nipped at and licked, as soft groans escape him, unintended, and it makes him feel delighted, that he can give himself like this – untroubled by nerves or fear, free and almost floating on air. Hands touch his face, stroke him softly, as if he could break otherwise. They move from his face, down to his neck, and further down, to find his chest, and they caress his skin there, as if he's being mapped, remembered for later times. He feels them going to his back, being held captive, securely, and John wants more, much more… The feel of his skin on another man, that other man, is wonderful, so bloody wonderful… oh, god… Yes… Yess… _

With a start John woke and opened his eyes. Within seconds he's aware of his surroundings, cold and practical, as the spare room in a surgery would look, packed with left over items that either had no place yet, or not anymore, and a decision has not been made yet as what to do with them. He could hear footsteps coming his way, then move away again. Alison, probably, getting ready for another onslaught of phone calls from frail Londoners… He realised that the dream he just had left him, apart from sad, rather roused, making a possible bumping into the receptionist not very high on his list right then, and he had to think fast of how he was going to deal with this. First: what could be his excuse? Row at home? That would make her even more suspicious, having already made up her mind that he was going to meet up with his lover-to-be (male) and that him sleeping here would mean he'd had a lover's tiff… Lost his key? Hmm… Mrs Hudson would've happily let him back in, and why would he arrive home on his own anyway? Backlog of work that he wanted to get out of the way? John?! Meticulous, always on top of things John? Not likely… But, seen as nothing else came to mind, that would have to do. Now to get rid of his other problem…

His day dragged on like days can when at the other end is something unpleasant. And meeting up with Sherlock was just that: something he wasn't so sure about… How would he be? What would he say? What would John say? He felt himself feeling more and more nervous as the day went on, having trouble concentrating on the people that sat across his desk. Another night in the store cupboard seemed almost more attractive, when leaving time loomed. But he left, only stretching his time by half an hour, finding left filing that suddenly seemed urgent, and as he travelled on the tube, and walked along the edge of Regent's Park, his stomach fluttered and growled like when he was waiting in the barracks in Afghanistan, knowing things were about to happen, but he had no idea what exactly. Ready for action, that kind of thing…

Baker Street seemed hectic, busier than normal. The traffic noisy, students and tourists looking out of place, the town suddenly appearing shallow and pointless to him. God, he wanted this over with now…

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

Never had a phone call from Scotland Yard felt such a relief to Sherlock Holmes. He's spent the day (and most of the night) in a self-inflicted haze, needing to be as far away as possible from all those things he allowed himself to feel, and as drugs were off the radar, the only thing he could think of was science… And lots of it… Experiment after experiment was done, in the flat and later in the lab in Bart's, and he felt a relief when around four in the afternoon the familiar feeling of being locked inside his head had returned. And then DI Lestrade had rung him on his mobile. Could he please come around and help them with something. Yes please! He answered almost too keenly. So there he was, in the cab to the Yard, feeling happy once more.

"Hello chaps," he beamed (giving Sgt. Donovan a deliberate look, which she'd return with her usual unimpressed glare), as he entered Lestrade's office, "What is it that you can't solve by yourselves…"

Elegant andwell-mannered as ever. He was oblivious to the annoyed stares he received back. Apart form Donovan, obviously, whom he seeked out )she was just too easy, he thought...).

"If it's not too much to ask, I've got some photos of a woman who seems to have died of a cause unknown to anyone we've queried, and maybe you can shine your magnificent light on it for us…" Lestrade answered with a smidgen of sarcasm (with strong admiration mixed in, but that was easy to miss). He knew how tricky it was to get the measure right with Sherlock, especially with Sally Donovan in the same room, but it appeared that the man was happy, high almost, so maybe this could be easy.

Sherlock glanced at the photos, studying them with his magnifying glass, reading the reports on the blood samples that had already been assembled and scrutinised, asked for a cup of coffee, sat on a chair with his cheeks bulged, hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed, and said: "Mouse droppings…"

"You what…?" GI Lestrade's bewilderment sounded almost funny.

"Mouse droppings… Easy…"

"… because…?"

"Mouse droppings must've ended up in her food, resulting in a slow but certain death… She was poisoned by the stuff, as the mouse, or mice, carried bacteria that she had no resistance to, look at the whites in her eyes, and it appeared from her living conditions – read the report - that the house was infested with mice… Therefor the cause of death is mouse droppings… Anything else while I'm here?" Sherlock gleamed. He caught Donovan's eyes, which were doing a death stare, and smiled distantly at her. 'No? Okay, well I'm off then, lots to do…"

o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o

Nobody in the flat… Great. More waiting… Just as he'd plucked up the courage to let himself into their place, John thought to himself… God… He made himself some tea, looked alongside human body parts that lay next to the milk in the fridge, sat on the sofa and flicked the TV on. Surely there would be something there to distract his thoughts, take him away from his nerves and his powerful feelings… Talk shows… D.I.Y.- programs… The news… Sports… Well, that would do… Hockey… Hockey?! Early evening? Was England suddenly doing well in a world cup somewhere?! Oh well. Nothing else for it then… Hockey it was… He sat there for an hour or so, getting almost enthralled by the match, almost forgetting about his circumstances, when he heard a key in the lock, and felt the jitters come flooding back. Sherlock… Shit… D-day…

"Hello," he said to the figure that appeared through the door. The tall man smiled at him, calmly, and took off his coat, which he laid over the armchair by the fire.

"Hi John, are you okay?" Sherlock sat down, and looked at John with calm eyes, although they had a coldness to them that John knew only too well. These belonged to Sherlock in distant-mode, the one he kept for damage limitation. Damage to himself, that was.

"Yeah, fine… You? Did you… Are you…" John stumbled on his words, no idea really what to ask him other than if _they_ were alright. "Are you okay, Sherlock? After yesterday…"

"Yes John, I'm fine. Everything's fine… Really… I just went to Scotland Yard, to help them out of a pickle, and now I fancy something to eat… Shall I order something? Chinese?" he had his phone in hand already, and John shrugged his shoulders, signalling indifference on this and let his head fall back on the back of the sofa. He heard Sherlock order food, business-like, and when he closed his eyes he felt the realisation that this was probably it, then… This was how it was going to be, from now on. They would be business-like, practical, cool and level-headed with each other. He stood up to have a shower.

He cried there. Only for a bit, but the tears were clear and big and came from somewhere deep inside. All the things he'd hidden, the tension he'd been feeling, to be put away for ever, dismissed and make room for being realistic, feelings for Sherlock were silly, pointless, and not to be dealt with ever again… Life would be so much easier then…

The smell of the meal that Sherlock ordered came up from the living room, and it made John realise just how hungry he was. All he'd eaten that day was a sandwich from the small bakers-come-cafe near the surgery at lunch time, his stomach making noisy attempts to tell him that he needed food, and so quickly he put some clothes on and made his way downstairs, dreading the next few hours. Sherlock had laid the table – pretty minimalist, but still, there was a candle there, he could see it clearly – and John sat down on his chair, nodded when Sherlock asked if he wanted wine, and tucked in.

"Hungry, then?" Sherlock smiled as he watched his friend woolf down the fried rice. He himself was only picking at things, having the odd bit and piece.

"You're not…" John observed. He carried on anyway, too eager to stop now. Why would he order food and not eat? He seemed hungry just now… What had happened in the meantime? Or was it just a façade to stop John form asking questions?

"Well… No, yes… A bit…"

"Oh well, clear as ever…" John smiled, almost glad at things being 'back to normal', whatever that meant anymore. Sherlock just smiled and carried on picking at bits of noodle, and the odd piece of chicken.

The meal carried on in peace, with both men asking each other civilised questions, trying to restore what is was they had before, and then John set to do the washing up afterwards, with Sherlock bringing along whatever John couldn't carry. Quietly he went about his business, let water run into the sink, as hot as his hands could stand, and Sherlock walked back into the living room, to get the wine glasses, which he put on the work surface, next to the things that John was about to wash, and as he did so, his hand lightly touched John's. Just ever so casually, but the shiver it sent down John's spine must've been felt downstairs by Mrs Hudson. It was more like a lightning bolt… He looked sideways, hoping to get a glance at Sherlock, but he had already moved away, to get a tea cloth from the hook next to the window.

"Sherlock," John's voice sounded careful. "Can we talk…"

The other man stopped in his tracks.

"Please…"

"There's nothing to say…" Sherlock answered, softly.

'There is… There's stuff I want to tell you… ask you… The reason why I ran out, to start with…"

"John, it's okay, you don't have to…"

"Yes I do… I just felt… Betrayed by you, angry that of all people, you crossed that line…"

"I'm sorry…"

"I know… I can see that… It's just that… God, I'm starting to sound like an old woman now… It has always been a very delicate thing for me, my privacy… It's been seriously disregarded by people I thought I could trust, a long time ago, and so it's something I've become very fussy about… And I suppose I also felt annoyed that you've forced the issue… I was quite happy to keep ignoring the feelings I have for you, happy to never go there, cos I felt too scared to take the plunge, run the risk of losing you, like just now… But maybe I had to admit to myself that I don't really mind, in the end… That it might be good that you've read what I'd written…"

John looked at Sherlock, hoping to get an idea what was going on in his head, but his expression was vacant, so he turned back to the sink, fishing out cutlery to be cleaned. Maybe he had to admit defeat. It was pretty clear that Sherlock had gone back into his head, economical with his feelings, not letting emotions run his life. Times like these, John felt almost jealous of that. Then he felt something warm on his left arm, as he was leaning on the worktop, something that felt rather like a hand, lying there carefully, as if frightened by the implications, or it not being welcome at all. But it was welcome, so incredibly much… So before there was time to change minds, John turned around, to face Sherlock who looked more insecure then he'd ever seen him, and he smiled. And Sherlock smiled back…

"I tried…" Sherlock said, shyly. "I tried to pretend none of this had ever happened, that I'd never read your things, and that I was never over the moon about that… And for about three hours I think I've succeeded… I was back to where I felt safe, back in my head, back with reason and facts and all that… Until you came home… And I saw your face, and the way you seemed even more scared than I was, and I thought…"

But before Sherlock could finish his sentence he felt a hand on his face, which stopped him in his tracks. He looked down, to see John smiling at him, his eyes asking him to bend down a little, so he did, and then his lips were met by John's. Carefully at first, as if looking for assurance, realising that there was no going back after this. John slid his hand around Sherlock's neck, pulling him closer still, and put his lips on the mouth that was now so close by. More eagerly, to point out that he meant business, the feeling inside of him that of relief and pure joy, and his other hand touched the side of Sherlock's neck, and he felt hands move to his back, being pulled close to the other body. An energy that felt familiar surged through him, a drive he'd remembered from so long ago, to be in the arms of another man, someone equalling his strength, which made him feel all buzzy and happy and soon their kisses became more fervent, his lips nipped and his tongue touched, carefully first, seeking access, which was granted fast. Sherlock let a little moan escape, unable to resist the avalanche of feelings that flooded him now. Feelings he'd kept in for so long, able to be released.

After quite a while they pulled apart, and stared at each other for a bit, smiling coyly, taking the time to let their new situation sink in. Sherlock let a finger trace John's forehead, with a tenderness that neither had anticipated was there.

"Wow…" John gasped, giggling a little, as if embarrassed by what he just voiced.

"Wow indeed … That's some kissing you did there, Dr. Watson … Though I've got not much to compare it to, of course… You might be crap and I wouldn't know…" Sherlock kissed John quickly, before he could be chastised over it, but still got a gentle thump from the man in his arms.

"Oi, you… Watch it…"

John grabbed the hand of his friend and tugged him towards the sofa, where they both plonked themselves down, John in Sherlock's arms, and just sat there for a while. Slightly bewildered as they both were by the turn of events.

After quite some time John poked Sherlock in the chest, where his hand was lying.

"This doesn't mean that you can break into my laptop again, okay? Otherwise I'll have to kill you…" John said while playing with the buttons on the shirt near his hand, fingers fiddling lightly with the skin underneath that.

"Oh yeah? And how were you planning to check me then, dear Dr. Watson…? It's not that difficult to get in, you know…"

"Don't know, might have to put explosives in, if nothing else works…"

Sherlock snorted at that thought, and moved himself so that he could reach the lips of his lover once more.

"Well, I don't think I'll be going there anymore… I know what I'd rather be getting into now…"

o0o0o0o0o0o

And so it was that the two men, once just friends and colleagues, set out on the great adventure that became their relationship...

Mrs. Hudson checked on them a few days later, as there hadn't been any rows or explosions, yet much giggling and other sounds she thougth were uncharacteristic of her two tenants, but felt reassured when one of them appeared by the door in his undies, explaining that they were fine, thanks, and heard the other whining out the name of his lover, to come back to the sofa, pleeeese... So off she went again, pleased with the outcome. Peace was assured for the time being.


End file.
